pode ser pq estou sempre intrigada…

we

wandering through the rickety lobby of this little, bustling, raucous hotel which has come to us from oblivion

we

both

we

amending space and time

(you say it

you said it

at the dinner)

without having planned it at all —(both) astounded ourselves by the course of events and the patterns development

it’s ok your lips now

your back against the wall

it’s ok your breasts

your shoulders

your

arms

hands

thighs

rear

skin

touch

begging

eyes

you looking at me with

those eyes you have

those very eyes

those green, wide open, longing, intensive, always intrigued, brimming, howling, uncertain, deep, yours, eyes, remembering me a future yearning for now that will get to drain my self

tell me, please, that you will get drained by it too
tell me this will consume the being you are

challenging your present; your present is for sure a challenging one
hand in hand with strongly wanting

meditation in the practice of death

there is an assumed truth that nobody wants this whole affliction in no event. these are the imposed voices of those who do not understand the harmonies of agon, certainly not made to appreciate the rare rewards of sacrifice —not self-denial, but desire

there was a man in the beaches of your childhood who sold the most frozen soft drinks ever. he carried a portable cooler with him, inside which the bottles rattled as he moved through the burning sand from towel to towel while shouting: gelada, geladona!

you usually brag about how growing up where you did is to live under a constant death threat in mind, and you get so upset and unyielding when I downplay that whole thing particularly for those who are in a favourable position. it’s perhaps that you feel yourself kind of delegitimized by my remarks. you call me an ignorant, whatever. you want the first prize on the fast track. one night we are followed by a couple of dodgy dudes, which come walking behind us, increasingly close, each one on either side of the street at one point, as if trying to surround us. suddenly you try to rush out, and, thanks to the fact that we are arm in arm, I hold you back expeditiously. I see the turmoil and the fear in you. at the end of the day, you won’t have the prize, small wonder that definitively this award wasn’t made for you

I see you at your desk in lotus, with your concerns and sorrows, irradiating your quiescence to the very world you deny. your desk could be home and home could last forever and all these feelings and emotions, passions and reactions, are eternally now. eternally. now. and that’s why any stage out of present is so scary. why future is so scary. future is so scary. future is death. you are not here and I am with you

the skin of your mouth on me, the shadow of my lips over yours. gateways to insolence. life spelling randomized words

we are intimately tied to each other now; does it mean we are cursed?

this is how things stand. we have come this far. and I’d wish that tomorrow there were no tomorrow.

now I can listen your footsteps

loving to rather vaguely clear away doubts I seeded myself

where are you now?

don’t

I

beg

don’t

reenter

in time

…

Chus Negro García (28/08/1981) is a writer, and a translator and proofreader, author of two published books of poetry, Historia del tiempo presente and mientr▲s dormí▲mos l▲ gr▲n siest▲, and his work has appeared in different journals and collections. He lives in Oviedo, Asturias (Spain).